You Tend To Haunt Me
by CabooseHeart
Summary: Soldier Boy AU. Flyomington. Project Freelancer's demise, but with a few new twists added to the mix.


**You Tend To Haunt Me**

 **Chapter 1: Epsilon**

 **Pairing: Flyomington (Agent Wyoming/Agent Florida/Agent Washington)**

 **Description: Soldier Boy AU. "I..." Florida stops, because it's not worth it to keep talking. Wyoming smiles at him, broken, and Gamma's light blue sparkles for a seconds in his eyes. He wants to bring him, to grab Florida and run. But they can't bring David... they can't. "I love you, okay? I'm going to fix this. I'll fix everything."**

 **In which Project Freelancer goes to Hell and Florida takes matters into his own hands. He'll fix this... he has to. For all of them.**

 **A/N: This AU got too deep... I don't know what to say for myself. Sorry? Naw. Please R &R!**

* * *

Wyoming finds Florida in the medical wing of the Mother of Invention, as expected. The Brit is damn near silent as he walks into the room, shooing away the nurses as he approaches his partner. Florida is fast asleep, slumped over with his hands holding onto Washington's shirt, as if that alone will awaken the comatose Freelancer. It's been three days since Epsilon was taken out, and, well... Florida hasn't said much. That worries Wyoming, since Florida is almost always talking, but it's not like he's been very talkative as of late either. Not while Wash is still hurting. The doctors promised that Wash would be up in a few hours, but... no signs yet. Florida isn't giving up though, and neither is Wyoming, for all he's worth.

It's hard to see either of his boys like this, Wyoming thinks, taking a seat beside Florida, absentmindedly rubbing circles into the other man's back. They're used to this, sometimes, but it's usually Wyoming or Florida lying passed out on the med-bed, not Washington possibly dying thanks to an AI committing suicide in his brain. Wyoming clenches his fist, rage filling his heart at the remembrance of just what Epsilon had done. The doctors say that Wash's memory will be foggy, and that he might be erratic when he wakes up again. Wyoming stares at Wash, watches the youngest of their relationship sleep almost peacefully. He looks so much younger when he's sleeping, like a kid still fresh into the military.

That's what he is, isn't he? Wyoming sighs to himself, looking away from Wash, a deep guilt filling his gut like a lead weight. It's his fault Washington is here, his fault for training him to be good enough in the Director's eyes to join the Freelancers. No... no, it's not Wyoming's fault. It's the Director's! He dragged Wash into this, his own flesh and blood! He allowed Wash to get hurt, allowed him to become mentally unstable, allowed an AI Fragmentation to be stapled into the back of his neck! Wyoming makes to stand, Gamma a low pulse in his brain telling him that they need to find Sigma, but a hand, unexpectedly, grabs his wrist and he stops, looking down to meet Florida's now open eyes. Not even Gamma can make him leave now.

"Reggie..." The name hangs like a noose in the air, Florida not breaking eye-contact with Wyoming, his brown eyes looking tired and overwhelmed. "You came."

"Yes. I'm here, Butch. I would never leave you." Wyoming promises, but it's empty, even to his ears. Gamma wants him to leave, keeps telling him it's time, but he just can't. Not now.

"I..." Florida stops, because it's not worth it to keep talking. Wyoming smiles at him, broken, and Gamma's light blue sparkles for a seconds in his eyes. He wants to bring him, grab Florida and run. But they can't bring David... they can't. "I love you, okay? I'm going to fix this. I'll fix everything."

"You won't be doing it alone. I'll find you again. I promise. We'll come back for him and fix everything," Wyoming promises, leaning down to kiss Florida's forehead. "I swear to God... I'll fix this. We both will."

"I don't want to lose you," Florida whispers, and his grip tightens, impossibly so. "Reggie, I... I just can't lose you. Neither can David," He seems to hesitate, shivering as he thinks. "... I think I have an idea, Reggie."

"What is it?" Wyoming sits down again, ignores the burn of Gamma, panicked, scared that they'll miss Sigma. "Tell me everything."

"The Director... he's going to use me. Use me to protect the Alpha-" -Gamma practically screams in Wyoming, screams _'Alpha, Alpha, Alpha'_ like it's a God- "-I'm going to convince him to let me take Washington, claim it's for his recovery, that he'll do well around other soldiers. He might let me, Reggie. I can save him."

Gamma is a drum player in Wyoming's brain, thumping, sounding so eager, wants to follow Florida now instead of Sigma like a member of a parade, because Florida will lead him to Alpha and Alpha is Creator and Creator can make him whole again. It's so tempting, the idea of Alpha in Wyoming's brain like cocaine, itching his skin and burning when the source is gone. Gamma's influence is a craving, a craving to have Alpha and keep it for himself, to make himself whole, but Wyoming is already whole... it's an unrelenting itch and Wyoming just wants to tear off his own skin. It burns so bad, then aches, low and steady and cramping like when a tendon shreds under the weight of exercise. Wyoming squeezes his eyes shut, and breathes. He can't go with him... that hurts the worst, more than the burn.

Wyoming freezes, then he swallows, watching Florida with a worried expression. "... Don't tell me where you're going, Butch," He orders, holding onto Florida's hand tightly, possibly bruising the skin. "Sigma wants the Alpha... Butch, he'll kill anyone in his way. He can't control himself. Gamma will tell him everything, even if I pull him right now-" -Gamma sounds like he'll cry, broken and robotic and REAL- "-He'll find out, dig into me and find it... but I'll find you again. I promise. Just... we'll both need to be patient, chap. Keep David safe."

Florida stares up at Wyoming and, God, hasn't he ALWAYS stared up at HIM? The first day on the Mother of Invention when Florida spilled hot coffee all over the Director's crotch and he simply glanced up at Wyoming and giggled, first thing in the morning after their first night together with mumbled nothings leaving Florida's mouth because he was too tired to speak well, in the showers the first time the two of them both had their eyes lingering on Wash for too long before meeting each other's eyes and thinking at the same time _'He's the one'_ \- this scene of Florida having to look up to meet Wyoming's eyes has been a continued normality that neither are willing to give up, because normality is a rarity and a necessity all at once.

The look in Florida's eyes says it all: _'Come back'_. It's hard, Wyoming knows, because Gamma is hot intercepted code that's buried himself deep into the top of his spine and into his brain and temptation mixed with addiction is the world's greatest poison. Gamma is such a good poison, in a sick, convoluted way that only someone who shares their head with an AI and knows what it's like to feel that other thought in their head tingling and circuiting through their spines and behind their eyes, burning and cooling all at once, can understand. AI Implantation is a terrible, terrible thing that so many have tried to replicate like the Master Chief and Cortana did, but no one has failed so beautifully as the Director has. He has created something beautiful, that is destined to consume.

But Wyoming's addictions and poisons are two completely different things, and if he can give up smoking for his boys because it worried Florida and bothered Wash's asthma... he can give up this addiction, too. This one will take time, like before, like the day Wyoming took every cigarette and cigar he owned and spaced them. Just like that. He broke off connections with suppliers on-board, took up reading the newspaper and anything on-board with words on it to distract himself from the itching and the cravings. It worked. Wyoming figures that Gamma is a different type of addiction all together, more of a lust, but Wyoming knows a thing or two about keeping it together in the face of danger, especially if it's for his boys.

"I believe in you, Reggie," Florida reminds Wyoming, nodding firmly as he takes Wyoming's hand, shaking it in the most professional way possible. "Until we meet again, Agent Wyoming."

 _'Agent Wyoming'_ is so damn ugly in Florida's mouth, not because he wants it to be, but because it's nothing like _'Reggie'_ or _'David'_. "Until then, chum." Wyoming agrees, after too many seconds have passed by for it not to be obvious that he's been stalling for more time with him.

Florida accepts this, and turns his attention back to Washington, running his hand lovingly through the younger man's hair. "We'll be waiting." He promises. Wyoming's not really sure if it's meant for him, or Wash, but either way, he walks out the door and no one stops him.

* * *

The LED lighting in the room is brighter than he originally thought it would be. It burns his retinas like tooth decay and he hisses because animal instinct takes over when you don't know what else to fall back on. His name is Leonard Church- no, not that, he's not him. He's not sure anymore, things are so… confusing. The temperature is moderate and that's a nice change, considering his cell is cold and devoid of anything familiar. He tries to think, tries to clear his mind, but it's difficult, the lighting acting as a cage, keeping him there, in that small, completely white, boxed in room of thought. It's padded to boot, like they're holding a crazy man inside. He supposes he must be one if he's in here. Just that thought alone is enough to trouble him. It's not long, not long at all, before a man enters, his skin dark and eyes a soft brown.

The man who has entered takes a seat in front of him, holding up a rather old fashioned looking tablet that looks better suited for the twenty-first century. "Hello," The man greets, smiling for all he's worth at him. "Tell me, can you remember who you are?"

He sits there, thinking hard as his palms grow warm and clammy, feeling wet and uncomfortable as he presses them against the plainly painted, steel chair he's been forced to sit in. "Um… I'm…" Think. Think and remember. "My name is… David?"

The man smiles at him, and nods, making David sigh with relief. That's right, his name is David. "That's very good, David. Your full name is David Leonard Church. Do you remember that name? Does it trouble you to think about your full name, David?"

David waits, taking in his name like a shark sniffs blood in the ocean. David Leonard Church. It rings a lot of bells, a lot of faces breaking into his memory, random little details he can't quite place. Long, flowing red hair, a girl staring at herself in the mirror, glaring at her reflection and asking _'Why do I have to look like Mom?'_ \- "Yes." He answers, snapping out of the flashback without a second thought. Whose thought was it? Was it David's or… or someone else's?

The man nods again, writing something down on the tablet using a tablet pen. "I see. You may call me Counselor while you're here, David. Now, what do you do for a living?"

A lot of things pop up. Worked at a retirement home once, had to quit after six months because he accidentally gave an older woman there too many of her pills and the guilt was eating him alive. He still hasn't gotten over it. Mowed a few lawns, watched people's pets. He's David- no, Special Agent Washington, member of the UNSC funded Project Freelancer. He's not David- yes he is, he always will be- David is different. Agent Washington was a Freelancer. A Freelancer, by the words of someone that feels like a glitch short-circuiting in the back of his brain, is someone who kills people for money or for their boss. Like a mercenary. The word mercenary makes David's blood boil, like it's not something he's very proud of being related to.

"I'm a Freelancer." David answers, as he calms down from the initial high of memories that stems like heroin through his blood stream.

"Very good, David," The Counselor praises, scribbling something down on his tablet before standing, making David stare, afraid of losing his only human contact thus far. "I have someone here who would like to see you, David. He's been very, very worried about you."

Before David can ask why he's been worrying the incoming guest, in comes a blue armored man. The man is short, shorter than him even, and wears a blue ODST helmet. He tilts his head curiously at David, and memories immediately fill his mind- _Florida, staring down at him, watching for any signs that he might not be enjoying himself. David has his head in Florida's lap, while someone else is at the foot of the far-too-small bed, deep-throating David while Florida calms the kid down. He's never done this, never had sex with a man, much less two men, but Florida is a smart guy and smart guys like him know how to make the situation better, and he asks_ \- David snaps out of the memory, blinking as he blushes up at Agent Florida. Butch Flowers. Whoever he is. David's too embarrassed by his thoughts to ask.

"Hello, David," Florida greets, pulling off his helmet to smile at David. He has long, braided black hair, with much darker tanned skin than the other Freelancer. His eyes are a hazel brown, something that briefly reminds David of warm summer days and oak trees that are too tall to climb. "I've been waiting for quite awhile to see you." He sits across from him at the table, watching David as the Counselor leaves the room behind him. It's to distract him away from the fact that someone is leaving him, and it works like a charm.

"... You're Florida, right? Agent Florida. I... I think I remember you," David admits, noticing how Florida's eyes light up at the admission. "There's someone else, too. But it's all... fuzzy."

Florida reaches across the table, so fast that David barely registers it until Florida has his hand over David's, rubbing a small circle there. "Don't rush yourself, kiddo," He suggests, voice soft and reassuring. "It's a lot to take in, I know, but just take it slow for awhile. I have a proposition for you, David. Don't worry, you won't get hurt or anything, but I can take you somewhere safe. It's not perfect, but it's better than an insane asylum. Would you like to come with me?"

David stares at Florida, trying to get a read on the guy, but he can't quite figure him out. It's almost like Florida's a figure in the fog, too blurry to see properly yet right in front of his very eyes. He longs to understand him better. And if David wants to understand him, that means he'll have to be around him more, which probably means he'll need to go with him. Something in Florida's voice hints at an incoming danger, like this is a big, big decision for David to make, but nonetheless, David feels like it's an easy one. After all, who in God's name would choose to live in an insane asylum? Nodding hesitantly, David looks at Florida, trying to convey without words that he's chosen to accompany him.

Thankfully, Florida's good at picking up on those kinds of things, and practically grins at David. His smile is shark-like, and it makes David feel slightly afraid. "Perfect," Florida praises, letting go of David as he grins at him even wider. "I'll go tell the Director. You'll be in armor again before ya know it, buddy. Don't you worry about a single thing."

David nods, smiling a bit awkwardly back at the older man. He has a sickeningly bad feeling about all of this, but it's not like he can do anything about it right now. It's best just to trust Florida, at least until he can remember more.

* * *

 _Sunsets are meant to be pretty and calming. Wyoming stares up at the sky, the orange-yellow glow making his stomach tie in knots. He's never seen many sunsets in his life, as three moons were always up around his colony planet, making it hard to catch sight of any sunshine much less a sunset. But here, on a small colony planet that actually does have a sunset, Wyoming feels oddly obscure compared to the red planet slowly fading from sight. He sighs to himself, faint memories of a planet he doesn't care to remember drifting in and out of his mind like a paper-boat struggling to fight against the tide. Before Wyoming can blend into the shadows, maybe sneak away from the others, a hand catches his wrist and keeps him grounded._

 _It's Florida that's caught Wyoming. The other man smiles worriedly up at Wyoming, mouthing a quick 'You okay?' so that no one will ask Wyoming the question aloud. Wyoming nods, unable to keep from staring at Florida, if only to avoid looking at the overwhelming sunset. Right now, Florida dresses easier, wearing a disgusting looking blue Hawaiian shirt, brown khaki pants, and black flip-flops. He grins up at Wyoming after meeting his stare, eyes hidden behind a think pair of sunglasses and braided hair tucked into the back of his sun hat. He looks far too much like a tourist and a flower shop owner to Wyoming, but he doesn't comment on it aloud._

 _"That was beautiful," York whispers after the sun finally disappears, hands on his hips as he looks across the city from the shared flat/hotel room. He claps his hands together, a big grin on his face. "Alright! It's settled! I'm ordering us a pizza!"_

 _"York, it's like, midnight on this planet," Carolina points out, but she still smirks, smirks in a way no one will remember except for those who survive."The Director said no bothering the locals while we're here."_

 _"She has a point," South for once agrees, not standing out on the balcony like everyone else (Wyoming envies her). "As much as I'd like to see York get fucking chewed out by the locals, I REALLY don't wanna hear the Director giving us all shit for it."_

 _York huffs, like a toddler not getting his way. "You people have no idea how to live, do you?" He asks, looking honest to God convinced that they don't. "Whatever. I'm ordering a pizza and no one can stop me!" He hurries off, presumably to find a cellphone._

 _Florida chuckles, turning to Wyoming, his browner skinned hand gripping Wyoming's pale white one even tighter than before. "Are you okay?" He asks again, quietly enough that no one will hear him over their own chatter._

 _"I... I suppose so," Wyoming muses, not looking directly at Florida. His head is starting to hurt, a not so dull thump in the back of his brain. "Just... feeling a little under the weather is all. Nothing to truly worry about, chap."_

 _Florida's brow knits together with concern, his sunglasses still hiding the eyes Wyoming knows so very well. The next words out of Florida's mouth are like white noise, and Wyoming shivers as the world seems to spin. "Say again?" He requests politely, trying so very hard not to sound as terrified as he is._

 _Once again, Florida speaks, the white noise returning. Wyoming's vision suddenly shifts, and as he scans the room, all eyes are on him, big and concerned and confused and- he closes his eyes, feeling very, very warm all over. Wyoming falls to the ground, curling into a tight ball as he swallows around a warm lump in his throat, unable to breathe properly. The hotel room is gone, the Freelancers are gone, even Florida is gone. Wyoming is alone, alone in an empty space that he feels both trapped and safe in. Wyoming had learned early on in life to appreciate silence more than white noise, so the loss of the rhythm is almost... soothing. Wyoming slowly starts to slip, deeper and deeper, until he isn't sure if he's alive anymore. He doesn't care either way, no one will, he's just a-_

"-Reggie?"

Wyoming cracks his eyes open very slowly, squinting at the intensity of the sunlight outside. It reminds him of sunsets. He pushes those thoughts away, sitting up on his bed, only to come face to face with Gamma's avatar. "Hello, Gary. Was I screaming again?" He asks, amazingly enough unfazed by the AI's sudden appearance.

"Fast heartbeat," Gamma explains, arms folded neatly behind his back, his avatar frizzing and glitching in the morning sunshine that slips in from behind the window shudders. "You were not stable, Reggie."

"I see," Wyoming mutters, sitting up and resting his forearms on his knees, letting out a long, tired sigh. "Any news on the Recovery channel?" He asks, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed, stuffing his feet in the same blue alligator slippers Florida gave him years ago.

"I will turn it on for you." Gamma promises, disappearing before popping up beside the small, handheld radio Wyoming stole while escaping Freelancer.

After Project Freelancer bit the dust, only Agents Wyoming, Florida, Washington, New York, Texas, and Maine made it out. Wyoming knows why Maine escaped- poor fool became the Meta- and York only got away because Tex helped him. Sadly, the twins and Carolina weren't so lucky. The Meta got to Carolina, ripping her head open and taking Eta and Iota, while North and South, while in the middle of a rather nasty sibling vs sibling gang fight, were captured by the guards of the MOI. Thankfully, they're not dead. Yet. They've been made into Recovery Agents- Freelancers meant to track down and destroy the Meta while blowing up dead Freelancer bodies on the way- and while they're getting along well enough, there's still an obvious air of tension between the two twins.

Wyoming sits back as Gamma turns on the Recovery radio, slipping on a pair of black and white sweatpants, a white hoodie, socks, and white tennis shoes. Wyoming pulls the hood over his helmet, sighing as he struggles to keep it from tearing due to the helmet's size. It's not all that uncommon these days for kids and relatives of dead space marines to wear their dead relative's helmets, Hell, people see whole elementary school classes wearing space marine helmets sometimes. Wyoming always feels like shit when he sees those kids, remembering why he signed up for war in the first place: to kill all the Covvies and save the human race. Instead, he got guilt-tripped into joining a military project that did next to nothing to stop the real war.

Wyoming got to be a pawn for an insane man's game against death. To him, that's bullshit, but to the government, that's bad luck and a one-way ticket to prison.

"Hello Command, this is Recovery One, reporting in," Wyoming jumps at the sound of North's voice, listening closely as he speaks to 479er on the other end. "I'm here with Recovery Two. We have successfully found Agent Iowa's body, over."

"Poor Iowa," South- Recovery Two- comments, Wyoming hearing her tisk at whatever she's looking at. He assumes it's Agent Iowa's remains. "She was only, like, twenty-three, man. Me and her once smoked blunts in the showers after hours."

"That's... inappropriate." North mutters, and Wyoming chuckles, momentarily glad that South is still acting somewhat like her old self.

"Shut the fuck up, cock-crunch!" South orders, sounding a bit... sentimental. She obviously knew Iowa better than she's letting on. "That's how I remember her, okay? Sure, she may've been one weird bitch, but she was at least a decent bitch. RIP, Iowa." Wyoming imagines South doing her little middle-finger salute, but it's hard to imagine. It's been awhile since he's seen her.

"Rest in fucking pieces," North adds, making a short gagging sound. "Jesus Christ... Maine really shredded her ass, huh?"

"Probably. I mean, I kinda suspected suicide at first, but I don't think you can beat yourself to death with your own skull." South explains, sounding almost disappointed.

"Yeah... ya know, the skull thing was more of a Tex move than a Maine move... you sure the Meta did this to her?" North is spectacle, but isn't everyone these days?

"Naw, Tex may've been a bitch, but she's not into killing other Freelancers right now. She's looking for back-up I think. Gathering people to take Maine out," South tells her brother, and Wyoming suspects she might just be right. "I doubt Tex would kill another Freelancer, unless she was paid to do it. Everyone who's out is probably on their last few cents right about now."

Well, she's not wrong, Wyoming thinks, eyeing his near-empty wallet. "Dear God, why the fuck isn't Command picking up?" North asks, smacking his radio. Wyoming jumps back, shivering violently at the loud, ear-splitting screech the banging makes.

South doesn't seem to take it any better than Wyoming. "Ow! Jesus Christ, North!" She shouts, the distinct sound of her punching North echoing into the radio. "Don't bang the radio, ya dick-stick!"

"I'm just trying to get a signal!" North mutters angrily, a soft chime almost interrupting him. "Oh, hey Theta," He greets, presumably to his AI, whose probably just powered on. "Can you see if my radio's busted?"

"Roger that!" Theta agrees, voice young and child-like. That still bothers Wyoming, in fact, he's pretty sure it bothers most everyone from the Project. No one wants to imagine a kid at war.

For a few minutes, Wyoming considers turning on his helmet's communicator and calling North and South himself. He can already imagine a plan: get them to meet up with him somewhere where PFL and the UNSC can't find them, gather as many others as they can, arm themselves, go after and kill the Meta, then rip whatever is left of Project Freelancer apart. It's an alright plan, but there's one major flaw: Wyoming still doesn't have Florida OR Washington. For all he knows, Florida's plan might not have even worked. Wash could still be in the Director's hands. Wyoming shakes his head, trying to get rid of the awful thought. No. Florida's smarter than that. Florida has one Hell of a Golden Tongue, and probably has Wash with him right now. At least, Wyoming sure hopes so.

A crackling sound breaks Wyoming from his thoughts, the sound escaping from his radio as Command finally connects with North and South. "We can hear ya now, Recovery One. Repeat, what is the status of Agent Iowa and her Armor-Mod?"

Wyoming notes, somewhere in his mind, that 479er sounds... older. It's more than a bit unsettling for the Brit. "Command, Agent Iowa is KIA. There is no confirmed cause of death yet, but I and Recovery One assume that this is the Meta's doing." South sounds professional as she answers instead of her brother this time.

Theta adds, at the last minute: "Agent Iowa's Armor-Mod is also missing, Command."

"Good," Is 479er's surprising answer, making Wyoming's eyes widen behind his helmet as he straightens. What in the bloody Hell is good about that? "Agent Iowa's Armor-Mod was a decoy: Recovery's One and Two, your new mission is to track down the Meta. You should be receiving his coordinates within five minutes."

There's a pause- 479er presumably getting the codes ready- where North and South say absolutely nothing to each other. Hell, even Wyoming and Theta are dead quiet from either end of the radio. After a few seconds, an alert goes off, and the radio tracker connected to Wyoming's helmet buzzes like a bee, alerting him to new information that has been sent from Command to Recovery One. Why South- or Recovery Two in Command's book- hasn't also received the coordinates, Wyoming isn't quite sure, but it's definitely making him worried. At the end of the day, he sorta prefers South- she's abrasive and truthful where her brother is dishonest and secretive- and seeing that she might be in danger of being thrown under the bus by Project Freelancer somewhat worries the older Freelancer. So much so that he almost says something, yet he doesn't. Not yet at least.

"Got 'em," North promises, reading over the coordinates after he's alerted that Command has sent them to him. "He's not too far from here. If we hurry, we can catch him before nightfall," He makes to leave, by Wyoming's guess, before the sound of armor hitting armor tells him that South must've just grabbed him. "What's wrong, South?"

"I-" It's rare to hear South stutter, but when she does, Wyoming KNOWS that whatever's up must be important. "-Shouldn't we fucking, ya know..." She pauses, coughing awkwardly. "... We gotta take care of Iowa first, North."

"Right," North replies, sounding almost irritated at the idea of stopping to take care of such a meaningless-to-him task. "You take care of Iowa: me and Theta'll look for anything we can use to fight the Meta off with."

North walks off, turning off his own radio, and South sighs with relief. "Asshole," South mutters somewhat immaturely, but it's for good reason, Wyoming decides. "Fucker doesn't give a shit about anyone but him, York, and Theta," She continues growling and snapping to herself as she preps explosives, readying Iowa's body for her Viking-Style ceremony. "... Why in God's name didn't Seven send me those coordinates? Doesn't she trust me anymore? Hell, we used to watch movies together after hours in her Pelican! The fuck is going on these days!?"

Wyoming does really mean to, but he turns on his mic either way. "A lot of things, lass," He deadpans, and he hears South's breath hitch, like she thinks she's about to be shot dead then and there. "Don't worry, South. It's just good old Wyoming, that's all."

He thinks he hears her relax, before South goes back to prepping the body, but she talks to him while she's working. "What's with the sudden drop-in, old shit? You got beef with me and my brother?"

Wyoming shrugs, before remembering that South can't exactly see him shrugging from where she's at. "I have no feuds with you, South Dakota. Your brother, perhaps, but not you. I couldn't help overhearing you and your brother's little adventures these last few weeks."

"Stalker," South accuses, before growing silent for a long, long time. "... So... what happened to you when shit hit the fan? Last I heard, Tex ripped you a new one and took Gamma from ya."

"I assure you that I have not been taken by Agent Texas or the Meta." Gamma answers South's question, finally joining in on the conversation.

"Good to hear that you're still kicking, Gary," South replies, sounding almost joyful at the news. She's probably just as desperate to hear that more Freelancers and trusted allies are alright as Wyoming is. "So what's the deal with stalking us, cracker-ass? You out to off one of us?"

"I don't intend to," Wyoming mutters, though it sounds sort of fake: if someone hires him to, he'll kill either of them. "But that doesn't mean I'm exactly safe, my dear girl. Not that anyone is these days."

"So where's Wash and Florida?" South asks, and it's the question Wyoming's been dreading since he learned that other Freelancers made it out alive. "They still with you or..."

Wyoming sighs, and shakes his head at nothing. "I have not the slightest idea where they've gone. I made sure they stayed far away from me when Project Freelancer collapsed."

South whistles, sounding impressed yet... saddened. "That's rough, man," She decides, a beep sounding from her end. "... Look, I'm about to blow another Agent to Kingdom Come, so if you don't wanna hear that, I'd turn off your radio. Just... call me again someday, alright? It's nice to talk to someone other than North, Seven, and Theta."

Wyoming nods. "I'll try and remember to pop in then. Good luck to you, Olivia." He doubts anyone has called her that in a long, long time, but he figures it might make her feel better.

And it does. Sort of. "... Until next time, Reggie." And then Wyoming mutes himself and turns off the radio, because he can't listen to another Freelancer get destroyed. He just can't.

Gary says nothing on the matter. Wyoming considers this a good thing.

* * *

 **To Be Continued**

 **A/N: And so begins the sad, sad tale of Flyomington! Wow, this took an embarrassingly long time to get done, but here it is, nonetheless! Please R &R, I wanna know what you all think of this little piece!**

 **~CabooseHeart.**


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